The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose,
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks,
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams,
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins,
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool,
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind,
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man,
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind,
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb,
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
— Dylan Thomas